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SONGS C3?M 
OF V/Z 

YOUTH 


BORZOI POETRY 


1922 

VERSE, by Adelaide Crapsey 
ITALIAN POEMS, an Anthology 
COBBLESTONES, by David Sentner 
THE SHEPHERD, by Edmund Blunden 
THE NEW WORLD, by Witter Bynner 
THE MASTER-MISTRESS, by Rose O'Neill 
SONGS OF YOUTH, by Mary Dixon Thayer 
COLLECTED POEMS of James Elroy Flecker 


SONGS OF YOUTH 


MARY DIXON THAYER / 



NEW YORK 
ALFRED • A • KNOPF 
1922 


COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc 


Published, September, 1922 



4 ) 

i 

j 

*4 T 

©CI.A686V36 


Set up and printed tv the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. 
Paper furnished tv W. F. Etherington & Co., New York, N. Y. 
Bound ty the Plimpton Press, Norwood, Mass. 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


MOV 10 *22 v 




DEDICATION 


Mother, who gave all I sing, 

Take this book — my offering. 

Think of it as a bouquet 
Of wild flowers picked today; 

May the fragrance of their bloom 
Fill, awhile, your quiet room. 

They will fade. I do not know 
Where the Everlastings grow. 


The author is indebted to the editor of The 
Saturday Evening Post for permission to 
reprint certain of the poems in this book. 


CONTENTS 


Youth 3 

A Thought 6 

My Loves 7 

Creation 9 

Names 10 

Morning 12 

Daisy Fields 13 

To a Hermit Thrush 14 

Gratitude 16 

A Question 17 

Sketch 18 

Bathing 20 

The Song Maker 21 

Reckoning 23 

Fatalism 24 

To a Scribbler 28 

Spring Song 29 

To a Wild Rose 30 

Credo 32 

Remembrance 33 

Communion 34 

The Way 35 


CONTENTS 


The Sculptor 36 
A Farewell 39 
Drawing in Pencil 40 
To a Squirrel 41 
Autumn 42 
Meditation 44 
To Caroline S. Jones 45 
My “If” 46 

Song of the Morning 49 
To a Personage 50 
The Prodigal’s Return 51 
One of Us 52 
Yvonne 54 
Wisdom 55 
A Secret 56 
April 58 

Chant of the Sea 59 
The Unseen 61 
Thoughts 63 
To a Waterlily 64 
Bubbles 65 
Childhood 66 
Self 68 
Last Night 69 
Jubilate 71 
A Prayer 73 
Chapters 74 


CONTENTS 


Fragments 75 

To M. B. Jr. 75 

The Barrier 76 

Stars 77 

Fantasy 78 

To Life 80 

Waiting 82 

Marriage 84 

The Past 86 

Cry of a Dead Poet 87 

The Last Goodnight 88 

To a Young Poet 89 

Death 90 

Memory 92 

The Artist’s Fear 93 

To C. E. K. 94 

Some Days 96 

On Returning a Pipe 97 

Critics 98 

The Answer 100 

A Suicide’s Prayer 102 

The Coquette 103 

The Dreamer 106 

To J. P. K. 107 

A Violinist 109 

Poets 110 

My Jewels 113 


CONTENTS 


Hours 114 

When I am Dead 116 
Poems 117 

The Woodnymph 119 
Laughter 121 

Wedding of Nature and a Soul 122 

Sea-Gulls 124 

Ecstasy 125 

A Portrait 126 

Flowers 127 

Platitudes 128 

To the Muse 129 

Supplication 130 

Snow 133 

To a Friend 134 

Confession 135 

A Child 140 

A Word 141 

Alone 142 

A Walk 144 

A Garden 145 

While You Talk 146 

A Woman 147 

My Will 148 


SONGS 

OF 

YOUTH 








YOUTH 


Ho! I am Youth! 

Harken! ye who are weak and old 
To me! Come! Touch my cheek 
For it is wondrous smooth! And 
sleek 

My hair is, it is full of gold 
That runs like fire in its strands. 

And feel my hands’ 

They are so white and strong. . . . 
They shall right every wrong! 

Ho! I am Youth! 

The summer wanders in my heart. 

Souls are flowers 

Sown underneath the stars; and blown 
Through gorgeous hours. 

I drink wine of the moon. Apart 
I tear the purple veil 
Of Paradise and dart 
Within. Death is a silly tale 
Old men and women think is true 
(And so it grew) 

For me it shall not be 
More than a whispered word at dusk — 
More than a rotten, cast off husk 
3 


Of thought. I cannot die 

For I am Youth. . . . Ho! Youth am I 

Yes! Crowd about and envy me, 

All ye 

With hesitating ways, 

And shallow, furtive, teary eyes 
That are so dull — in which surprise 
Has vanished — ye who cannot see 
But into faded other days 
And seem to be 
Half alive. ... Oh! 

Do you never crave to know 
The joy that a sky-lark flings 
Into the Dawn? The secret things 
And glad, 

That go 

Through the instants, 

And the mad 
Pulses that beat 
Blood to fire? 

Flesh into heat? 

Higher. . . .Higher. . . . 

I leap than any steer 
Bounding in wild despair 
Through the wild forest air 
From hunters. But I fear 
Not hunters, I! 

For I am Youth. I shall not die. 

Ho! I am Youth! 

For me the trees 

4 


Are red with fruit. For me the breeze 
Is dipped in fragrance; tinted; and 
For me pale oceans swing, the sand 
Is white as crumpled sheets, 

The cool world meets 
The sun, 

And ages run 

Into a nonsense rhyme. 

All time 

Is made for me! For me! 

I laugh at Destiny! 

Ho! I am Youth! 

Death is a lie. 

Beauty is truth — 

And so am I! 

Ho! So am I! 


5 


A THOUGHT 


Oh! There is so much to say 
Shall I ever get it said? 

Life is always just “today” — 
Can I never run ahead 
Up to God, and turn, and see 
What today will do to me? 


6 


MY LOVES 


I love. But my dearest loves are not 
Aware of me. . . . 

I love a tree 

Swaying against a sunset pale as faded roses, 
With branches quivering 
Like pointed fingers, 

Sunburnt and strong, 

To where a long 
Cloud lingers, 

And daylight closes. 

I love a star that opens wholly 
At dusk, like a young lily lifting 
In some still, shadowed pool 
Tinged with the cool 
Green sense of Dawn, and drifting 
Upon white silences. . . . 

I love the hour 
When love commences, 

And the strange power 
Of little things — 

I love blue shadows laid — 

Like curling plumes' — on snow; 

And icicles, clear shafts of jade; 

And dreams that a thrush flings 
Against cold stars. . . . 

7 


I love wild streams that flow 
Eternally in quiet places, 

Tumbling, like silk spilt out and laces, 
Torn and shimmering. And I love low, 
Trembling branches, eager and young, 
That touch my cheek, 

And only speak 

In whispers. I love songs sung 
And half forgotten — melodies that break 
Unending through us, and that make 
The tunes our hearts beat time to. . . . 

I love each day 
More than the last. . . . 

What is, I love, and what is past — 

What will be — even Death, 

The swirling, unrestrained breath 
Of God, that sweeps a world and me 
To a hidden Destiny. 


8 


CREATION 


Listen, God! I understand 
Your laughter as you made the land 
And oceans, as you stood and hurled 
World upon world — world upon world! 

You felt as I feel when I make 
One little song that does not break. 

You felt as I feel when I’ve said 
New words that I find in my head. 

Listen, God! “Let there be light!” 

You cried — I too know the delight 
You knew as suns flashed and obeyed, 
And all the universe was made! 

You felt as I feel when I seize 
One chord out of dim harmonies. 

You felt as I feel when I blow 

One note — only more so . . . more so 

Listen, God ! I comprehend 
Your agony when you descend 
Upon the earth, and see each thing 
That you have caused there, perishing. 


9 


NAMES 


What does a Lover care for names? 

Are the gold threaded weeds that bend 
Keen, blue-tipped points upward, and send 
Timorous shadows o’er meadows 
(Like slim, grey-lipped, wind floated flames) 
Less fair because I have not cared 
To seek through pages that are penned 
For syllables that fools have dared 
To blend? 

Do Lovers need a word? 

Or is the star that drops to blow 
Between the poplars, and the low 
Cry of a cloud-entangled bird 
Less 1 dear to me because I heard 
Not what men have called bird or star — 

And not what men think Wonders are? 

Oh! Come with me into the world! 

I wander where the sun is curled 
Moist and unheeded round the breast 
Of flowers, and I do not rest 
Till I have kissed the Dawn, and felt 
Her arms about me, and have knelt 
Dumb, in stillness, praying a prayer 
That is forever, everywhere. 

10 


Oh! Come with me! Forget your books 
Scratched with black lines and broken hooks! 
Forget your wisdom! Only seek 
To understand young leaves that speak, 

And grope and toss, and stretch and lean 
Toward you, and are cold and clean! 

Come — come with me! The tall trees sway 
Against the dreams of Yesterday. 

The world rocks with them. We shall lie 
And touch the sunset, stealing by, 

And we shall feel pale thunders creep 
Through the hot earth, and we shall weep — 
Gladness of life — sadness of death — 
Creation’s pulse — breath of its breath. 

Will you heed then the names of things? 

Life is ecstasy! Spread your wings! 

Drink the moonlight! Laugh with the sea! 
Love with the flowers! Follow me! 


11 


MORNING 


I lay in bed. I heard the sun 
Cry out “Today — Today’s begun!” 

I lay in bed. I kept my eyes 
Tight closed. I knew that all the skies 

Were washed in pale pink soapsuds there, 
But I thought that I did not care. 

I lay in bed. A little breeze 
Came hurrying among the trees, 

And, jumping o’er the window-sill, 
Crept close beside me, and was still. 

And then a bird began to sing 
“Wake up! Wake up! you lazy thing!” 

I tumbled out of my warm bed- 
Oh! the sky was as red — as red! 

And the world trembled, every bit! 

I laughed. And kissed my hand to it. 


12 


DAISY FIELDS 


There is a wondrous field I know 
In which a million daisies grow 
Like giant flakes of shiny snow. 

And all the night and all the day 
The daisies jerk their heads, and sway 
From side to side. I think that they 

Would love to break their stems and be 
White stars among the clouds, and free, 
Instead of in the world with me. 

I think the daisies always try 
To float away — and that is why 
They toss about and sigh — and sigh. 


13 


TO A HERMIT THRUSH 


Though I lost all the songs I made, 
Though I forgot all prayers I prayed, 
Dost think that this were aught to me 
If I could sing one song, as thee? 

Through the low sigh that never ends 
Of forests', thy sweet voice ascends — 
Carol of loveliness more brief 
Than shattered wave, or falling leaf. 

Hark! Thou canst never sing for long 
Alone! The earth is pierced with song, 
And every leaf and every tree 
Trembles in hushed expectancy. 

Poet of twilight and of dawn, 

God of the misty places, 

Lover of the green silences, 

Mocker of human faces! 

Lo! I bow down my heart to thee! 

I break my little lays! 

Thou art a minstrel whom no words 
Of mine can rightly praise. 

14 


Sing! Sing, Enchantress! Ages pass. 
The sunlight moves. The sky 
Is dark with shadows, white with stars, 
And men are born and die. 

Still on the wings of restless winds, 
Over cloud thickened lakes, 

Thy dream is hung, thy madness flung, 
Soars upward — lingers — breaks. 

Dost think I would not sleep, while yet 
Waking is ecstasy? 

Or die — while thou art singing and 
Pass unreluctantly? 


15 


GRATITUDE 


I would give back to the world 
All it has given to me. 

The blood of every dying leaf; 

Joy of summers, and the grief 
Of endings; gestures of a tree, 

And every pulse of life that stirred 
More life in me; notes of a bird, 

And fresh dew gathered into balls 

Of crystal, tipped 

On swaying grasses; waterfalls; 

And waves that slipped 

Across soft sands; and whisperings 

In forests of forgotten things; 

The touch of flowers, and the ways 
Of fir-trees, and enchanted days; 

And the sweetest of all learning — 

Youth, and youth’s impassioned yearning. 

I would give to the world 
The sense of stars and sea; 

Dawn; God; and ecstasy; 

And then would draw myself apart, 

And break and toss the world my heart, 
And with an echo for a name 
Return to Silence, whence I came. 


16 


A QUESTION 


How can I squeeze my soul into 
The words you think are best? 

How can I pound it stale and flat 
And leave it for the world to pat 
And taste — and test? 

So you would have me do, I know, 

For when I’ve caught the beat 
Of a young heart and pinned it tight 
Upon a page with all my might — 

A wondrous feat! 

When I have dipped the swaying wind 
Out of the dusk, or kept 
The dream of rose-buds on my pen 
That scribbled words you asked for — then — 
Although I wept, 

You wiped the coolness from the wind, 

And broke the rose that lay 
Curled in sweetness under the ink 
Dreaming of hours blue and pink — 

And went away. . . . 


17 


SKETCH 


Smoke tainted mist brushes the city, 

Buildings lose color and their edges, 

Dulled, sink deep into the oval sky. 

Beyond, the river past its hedges, 

Woods and fields, slips by. 

Low in the west a crimson scar 
Pulses, where a great Hand 
Stabbed swift the fluttering heart of day 
Till her warm blood gushed out. The sand 
Is red. Poplars sway 

With the cold breath of fainting light, 

And grasses 1 by the water’s rim 
Shudder. Each tiny blade, 

A compass true, points up to Him 
Who knows. I am afraid. 

The city’s lost in cloud. 

Its reassuring din is stilled. 

I am alone — a dreamer standing on a dream- 
All is unreal, the void filled 
With tiny sounds. The smothered scream 
Of engines thundering, somewhere 
18 


Afar, pierces and terrifies. 
Swallows, dipping in the mist, 
Fly on. The pale world sighs. 
Grey shadows crack and sift. 


19 


BATHING 


Ho! Winds! Sweep through me now! I stand 
Upon a puckered seam of land, 

Basted with green silk ripples thread, 

Pinned with a silver pin of light. 

I fling my arms above my head! 

Am I not fair? Am I not white? 

Ho! Winds! Ho! Trees! Ho! Clouds that cling 

To the old world! Ho! Anything! 

Watch me! Watch me! Now I shall run 
Upon those lazy waves, I’ll stare 
Into those purple eyes! What fun 
To pinch their bodies, pull their hair, 

And laugh! I’ll tease them! They will chase 
Me tumblingly, and kiss my face, 

And when I’m tired, their arms about 
My neck shall draw me close, and we 
Shall pick the stars as they come out 
At dusk, and blossom in the sea! 


20 


THE SONG-MAKER 


The little songs I sing are true 
Because I sing them about you. 

The wisest critics nod, and call 
Me “Poet” — I were not at all 

A poet had you never come 
Into my life — I had been dumb, 

And walked with harnessed soul, and bowed, 
Nor dared to weep or laugh aloud. 

As some would measure happiness 
I had been happy — loving less; 

As some would reckon woman’s bliss 
I had been stronger — wanting this. 

Shadows of broken clouds that hush 
A world, and naked dawns that blush 

At their own flagrant loveliness! 

Oh stars and sea! oh consciousness 

Of ages! What are words of men 
Before your silent thunder? When 
21 


The last day topples from the brim 
Of years, and we look up at Him 

Who caused us, and caused love, yet kept 
Our lives apart — we who have wept 

With the forbidden wantonness 

Of youth — may He then stoop and bless 

Us, whispering — “Now Time is dead — 
Eternity lies all ahead. . . . 


22 


RECKONING 


These I have lost: The ecstasy 
Only to live; the touch of dawn; 

And the mad, aching, free 
Thoughts of my youth — the drawn 
White veils of life — and little things 
That mark the rhythm as God sings. 

And I have lost the sense of awe; 
Before deserted shrines 
I pass unseeing. Never more 
Kneel down if a star shines, 

Or falls, or if sweet fragrance blows, 
Or if a friend dies, or a rose. 

This I have learned : The way to wait, 
And the strange loveliness of you; 

A secret that, too late, 

I understood; A few 

Dear, foolish words; the way to weep; 

And the long, lonely way — to sleep. 


23 


FATALISM 


There are two Eyes I cannot see 
Smiling at me . . . smiling at me. . . . 
There is a Voice I do not know 
Bidding me go . . . bidding me go. . . . 

Out through the crooked, narrow ways 
Alone . . . alone. . . . 

Beyond our crumpled Yesterdays 
Where but a child still laughs and plays, 
And not a moan 

Is known. Where sunset petals curl 
In fading amethyst and pearl; 

Into a universe unreal, 

To a half understood Ideal 

Who turns her face aside, and weeps, 

Because she keeps 

Man’s little dreams, toward her flown, 
Beneath her heel. 

Alone . . . alone. . . . 

I go and feel 

The sunlight in my heart, and each 
Lesson that Sages strive to teach 
Open, unfingered, in my soul — 

24 


A wondrous scroll 

Antiquity 

Has left to me; 

For in the tremor of a rose 
Is love’s Passion; 

In the fashion 

Of a pale, drooping cloud that goes 
Between the years, and breaks, and throws 
Itself against Immensity, 

Cannot you see 

A symbol of our life? We too 
Creep in the vastness undismayed; 

We, too, trace a dim channel through 
Our time, and fade 
Suddenly, like a broken cloud, 

And but a tarnished, torn shroud 

Will cover what we hoped and dreamed, 

And what we were, and what we seemed. . . . 

Oh God! I thank you that you give 
Us this great privilege to live! 

For I have pressed 

Young flowers, here, against my breast, 

And trembled with the little breeze 
That fills, with secrets, little trees. . . . 

And I have lain very still 
Among the ferns on some warm hill 
That yet dashes 
Up, and splashes 

The glassy sky with mists of green. . . . 
Oh! I have seen 
Swift, tiny ripples all of gold 
25 


Around the throats of daisies fold, 

And clasp and sway, 

At end of day. 

Then mellow grasses everywhere — 

Wisps of the blonde earth’s yellow hair — 
Have brushed my cheek, and I have smelt 
Their fragrance. Oh, and I have felt 
The ageless vigor of the world 
Rush through me, like a comet hurled 
In space, as, held in ecstasy 
With earth’s brown body close to me, 

The forces of her throbbing blood 
Mingled with mine in such a flood 
Of life — Youth leaped to break its bars 
And dance forever with the stars! 

We kissed. My face crushed to her face — * 
All of her strength and ageless grace, 
With the first meeting of our lips 
Tingled into my finger tips. . . . 

Oh! Not a bird that swirls and dips 
On high but it has set my heart 
A faster tune, and not a dart 
Of shadow, or the sound of wings 
Or waves — there is no wind but brings 
Fresh joys, keener love of being — 
Seeking, knowing, feeling, seeing! 

God! 

Thanks for this supreme, mad glance 
Into the things of Circumstance — 

26 


This vision of Eternity 

That you are giving now to me. . . 

Might it be true (as Prophets say) 
Our Night but waits another Day, 

And though flesh crumbles into dust, 
Our spirits, ever upward thrust, 

Live on! If this indeed were true? 
And I should sometime meet the You 
That caused, and causes still, the Me? 

But . 

There are Eyes I cannot see 
Looking at me . . . looking at me. . 
There is a Voice I do not know. . . . 
And I must go . . . and I must go. . . 


27 


TO A SCRIBBLER 


You — who make yourself a Poet — 
Are a fool, and ought to know it. 
Unless a song bursts in your heart 
Like petals blown wide apart. . . 
Unless you cannot help but sing 
For God’s sake write not anything 


28 


SPRING SONG 


Oh wicked, wicked little bird! 

Why do you laugh at me? 

Is it because I’m young — and bound — 
And you are young — and free? 

Oh beautiful, swan-throated cloud! 

Why do you float away 
Into the night, nor turn and glance 
Once backward, on Today? 

Oh restless, pale blue slippered waves! 
How can you dance, nor tire 
Forever? Is there nothing that 
You have not — and desire? 


29 


TO A WILD ROSE 


Little wild rose I’ve found you. See! 
Under your cool, wet leaves 
You lift a pale, sweet face to me, 

And all the summer grieves. 

For summer knows that I can stretch 
My hand, and snap your soul 
Like a pink string, where shadows swing 
And silence brims the bowl 

Of your frail life — why do you live 
Thus hidden, little rose? 

Did you, then, fear if I came near, 

Your happiness must close 

Into my hand that has crushed what 
Is most lovely, that takes' 

A bud — a butterfly — a song — 

To play with — though one breaks? 

Oh, little rose, bow down your head 
And blush — I do not dare 
To touch you. I am sad and old 
And you are very fair. 

30 


Draw back your petals — fold your 
thoughts. 

Into the dusk she goes 

Who loves you better than to take 

You with her, little rose! 


31 


CREDO 


Deeply to live. That is to be 
A part of nature — like a tree. 

To sway beneath a breath of God, 

To feel our roots beneath the sod; 

To grow — to strain toward a cloud 
Beyond our reach — to prick the shroud 
Of twilight with a leaf, to die — 

Nor envy him who passes by. 

Deeply to love. That is to seek 

For words which, found, we cannot speak. 

It is belief in things untried, 

A grandeur in what is denied, 

An ecstasy beyond our sense, 

A gesture — without recompense. 

It is a dream more sadly sweet 

Than hearts that touch, or lips that meet. 


32 


REMEMBRANCE 


Might I have loved you? I do not know. 

But I think if your hand had once touched mine 
As we stood on the hill where the pale clouds blow 
Close to the world, and Time runs slow 
Under the Pine. . . . 

If our hands had touched, and eyes had met, 

The thing that is dead in my heart had stirred, 

And I think that we both might be standing yet 
There on the hill I can’t forget 
Without a word. . . . 

The crooked trees would have stooped and seen 
Strange wonder in our eyes, 

And the greedy white waves that scrape so clean 
The flat blue rocks, would have suddenly been 
Cold with surprise. 

And slim, warm fingered winds would have 
brushed 

Stars through the dusk for this — 

That the lips of Eternity be hushed, 

And all of the centuries’ love be crushed 
Into our kiss. 


33 


COMMUNION 


What fun to lie down in a daisy field! The stems of 
the daisies are polished and moist, and they tremble a 
little — ever so little — as though they were afraid — but I 
think it is because they are happy. I, too, tremble when 
I am happy. 

I am lying so still, so still; the daisies do not under- 
stand. They lean over me to see what is the matter, 
and their faces are very pale. I look up into their 
golden eyes and laugh. 

Sometimes, between the daisies, a caterpillar comes. 
I am not frightened — though it is big — as big as an 
elephant, and its body is covered with hair. Slowly, 
smoothly, it swings from one stem to another. The 
daisies shudder as it passes over them, and they droop 
their lovely heads. No one knows about the caterpillar 
but the daisies — and I. 

Sometimes a cricket sits on my hand and sings. Its 
voice is hoarse — but we like it — the daisies and I — be- 
cause it is meant to be beautiful. 

Sometimes white butterflies come drifting . . . they 
are the souls of daisies. 

Sometimes cloud shadows touch us like sighs, and 
sometimes a thrush sings. But always the daisies lean 
over me, and the world is powder and gold. 


34 


THE WAY 


I walk a-tip-toe in the woods 
For Beauty slumbers there, 

Her breathing shakes the youngest leaves' 
And ripples in my hair. 

I walk a-tip-toe across fields, 

Or I might break the wings 
Of butterflies, and crush the heart 
Of buds, and other things. 

I pass a-tip-toe through the world 
And hardly dare to weep — 

Lest God should brush away this dream 
Of life — and let me sleep. 


35 


THE SCULPTOR 


I said in my heart: Before death spoil 
And pull me under the damp, black soil — 
Under the white, invisible things — 

Before my flesh is hurled 
Into the vitals of the world, 

I shall stand up and toil 
For Beauty. I shall find her, make 
Her real to you. For Beauty sings 
Unto my soul. Oh! I shall break 
Mountains to reach her, and, alone, 

(For others will but think me mad) 

I shall carve out of a blank stone 
Her image. 

From her frozen sleep, 

Hot and alive, Beauty shall leap 
Into the eyes of men. . . . 

Oh! then. . . . 

I can die — not caring — 

With my Beauty daring 

The clouds. Supreme! High! Unafraid 

Beauty! The Beauty that / made! 

And so I clenched my hands and toiled 
In the dim Night. 


36 


Black vultures fanned the burning air 
Waiting my death — greedy to tear 
My heart in shreds. I heard them, there. 
Shrieking in the empty spaces 
Between the stars. Empty faces 
Grinned out at me 
In mockery. . . . 

Time — stupid, cruel, staring — sat 
Beside me — even thought to pat 
My body ere he pierced it through 
And mangled it. I’ve watched him do 
The same to others. Murderer! 

But I would make him wait — for Her! 

She grew! Under my trembling hands 
No one understands 
How, she grew! 

White were her tiny feet 
As opened waves, and fleet. 

Her limbs washed in the dew 
Out of a morning mist — 

Her marble flesh I kissed 
To make it pink. 

Oh! Can you think 

How beautiful she was? Her breasts 

Were young petals, tender, curving 

Beneath a faint transparent moon — 

Tantalizing, and unnerving 

Every little timid breeze 


Draping futile harmonies 
On her shoulder. 

To behold her 
Was to swoon. 

Oh, there was rapture in her eyes! 

Rosy arms up to the skies 

She flung. On her lips, Loveliness, 

And the dream of a caress. . . . 

Beauty! Beauty! I had won. . . . 

Lo! My Task of tasks was done! 

Up I leaped triumphantly. . . . 

But viper-like, suddenly 

Time plunged his fangs into my heart — 

I felt the awful poisons dart 

Through every vein 

In stabs of pain — 

I fell . . . and could not rise again. . . . 

My heart’s blood flooded Beauty’s feet 
(No doubt she thought it cool and sweet) 
My stiffened arms in agony 
I stretched to her . . . she did not see. . . . 
I died. But in the vastness there 
Did Beauty care? 


38 


A FAREWELL 


Tonight you sleep. You sleep, at last. 
Life is a dream. Your dream is past. 
Farewell. The crowd that came to weep 
Has left — to laugh. Alone, you sleep. 
The night is here. The grass is wet. 

The stars are white. Shall I forget? 


39 


DRAWING IN PENCIL 


Pale gray waves, and pale gray sky, 

Tips of pines a-quiver, 

Pale gray winds like a child’s first sigh — • 
Song from over the river. 

Ye who sing, in this dim world, 

What would your voices say? 

Blood tipped, the notes fall in my heart — 
They fall — and the world is gray. 


40 


TO A SQUIRREL 


Poor, funny, tiny, frantic beast 
Who prattles from a tree, 

And fixes shiny, impish eyes 
Between the leaves, at me! 

I watch the pounding of your heart 
Against your furry breast, 

You tremble lest I should disturb 
The fuzz-balls 1 in your nest. 

I am your Fate, your God, your Hell, 
And still you scamper near, 

And boldly chatter out your wrath 
In agonies of fear. 

I go. May He who looks beyond 
The little ways of men, 

Hush, as He comes, our terror and 
Smile down upon us, then. 


41 


AUTUMN 


Oh muse, infuse my heart and brain 
That I may utter the refrain 
I hear and lose, and hear again! 

Now Autumn walks in majesty 
Between the ages; never old, 

She sprinkles thick the world with gold, 
And loops, in passing tree to tree, 

Veils of a blue transparency. 

There is a brooding and a hush 
O’er vale and forest. As I pass 
There is a trembling in the grass; 

And there are tints no artist’s brush 
May hope to catch. There is a flush 

Of triumph on the earth’s brown cheeks, 

And into nature’s solitudes 

Comes now a Presence that intrudes — 

A Soul that yearns, and never speaks, 
And seeking, tells not what it seeks. 

Spirit of sadness and of awe! 

Silent and lonely wanderer! 

42 


I feel your breath, I watch the stir 
Of leaves beneath your step. Before 
Your unseen image I adore. 

Oh, Might I only voice the things 
You whisper me! Could I but tell 
The beauty of your long farewell, 
And weave in songs a poet sings 
Your falling tears 1 , and murmurings, 


And melodies and silence, your 
Enchantment tremulous and fair, 

Your golden eyes, and loosened hair, 
And wayward gestures! Oh to lure 
You into words that might endure! 

I cannot. Even as I write 

The splendour dies. I grope; I find 

A broken flower left behind; 

A faded thought; and where was Light 
There darkness enters. There is night. 


43 


MEDITATION 


I touch myself. My skin, 
Though warm and sweet, 

Soon shall be meat 
For worms. It will begin 
To sift to air 
And, crumbling there, 

That stinking dust of me 
Will touch Infinity. 

Oh! The dark pain to know 
That I must go. . . . 

Stars, suns and flowers, 

And beasts and hours — 

They know not this. 

I yearn a bliss 
I cannot reach — 

I learn a song 
I cannot teach. . . . 

I shudder in the vastness. Blend 
In what I cannot comprehend. 


TO CAROLINE S. JONES 


Willow, lean over her, awake her gently, 

And you, little flowers, listen intently! 

Hush; and oh listen! Perhaps you can hear 
The sound of her breathing, for you are near; 

You are so close to my darling — stoop low — 

She may be weeping, and I do not know. 

She may be laughing, and never a sound 
Breaks through! I lie with my face to the ground. 
Will you listen, tiny white flowers for me? 

Can you wake her, arms of the pale willow-tree? 


45 


MY “IF” 


If I could only sing 
The blueness of one flow’r 
Growing unnoticed, there, 

Through its blue curtained hour 
Of sun and wind and air. . . . 

Bending its tiny face to bring 
The vigor of grass rippled hills 
And polished skies into its stem, 

As Pan a hollow reed-stick fills 
With rapture, blows it forth again, 
Whispered, slow drifting melody 
Of cloud encircled plain, 

Of shadowed, pulsing sea, 

Caught in his pipe, and woven free, 

And tossed back, sweet, to them. . . . 

If I could only sing 
The tremor of one leaf 
Floating upon an oval pool, 

And the unpitied grief 
Of the great Mother Tree, beyond, 
Sobbing; who strives to fling 
Gaunt arms about the sky and tear 
From its closed fist her children, there. . . 
46 


Huge Thing, half human and half fool, 
Dumb, aching, over fond, 

Who shudders so, and grieves 
Although she knows 
That Spring will bring 
Her other leaves. . . . 

And summer goes. . . . 

If I could only sing 

The blackness of a moon swept beach. 

Wet, blurred with little stars, 

The laughter of young waves that reach 
In knotted, lace edged bars 
Across it, and that swing 
Out echoes' of a diamond song 
Dropped from a billow stretched along 
The sand, until it broke — 

Until its soul awoke 
And, waking, cried 
The agony 
Of timeless sea 
Before it died. . . . 

Oh, if I could but sing 

One of your smiles — just one — 

So that the world might look 
And learn the wisdom of a Book 
Unwritten. Everything 
That were a part 
(Since worlds begun) 

Of brain and heart 
Of man who longed to know, or knew 
47 


Love’s beauty, were a part of you — 
And might I sing 
Of anything — 

That’s fair, and sing it true — 

My singing were a lover’s trial 
(Who found all beauty in your smile) 
To give it back to you. 


48 


SONG OF THE MORNING 


Hail, little singers of the grass 
Who are — and with a summer — pass! 

Hail, little flowers turned to see 

The dawn, and wave farewell with me! 

We seek forgotten paths that lead 
Through old, enchanted ways; 

We seek gold mornings, and the breath 
Of unreturning days. 

Hail, little shadows, gently keen! 

Hail, silence, deeply soft and green! 

Hail, little poets of the grass! 

Awake and sing! And sing . . . and pass. 


49 


TO A PERSONAGE 


Have you never felt your heart 
Open, like a rose, 

When the sun bounds out and throws 
Itself through Infinity 
Like a wind-tossed, weightless ball — 
Have you not felt this at all? 

Have you never felt your life 
Lift itself, and soar 
Like a bird that vanishes, 

And returns no more? 

Like a rising moon that we 
Watch imprisoned in a sea? 

Have you never felt the dawn 
Touch, with white fingers, 

A toneless string that lingers 
Deep within you — till it breaks — 
Leaves but shining strings well strung 
For the song that must be sung? 

Have you never madly laughed^ — 
Paused — to wondfer why? 

Have you never wept because 
Flowers, too, must die? 

If you have not, it is true 
That I do not envy you! 

50 


THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN 


If I were dead — and lying here — 

I think the birds would come quite near, 
The squirrels clamber on my knee, 

The ferns droop, sighing, over me. 

If I were dead and stretched, as now, 
Beneath the trees, the trees would bow 
Their heads, and rosy winds would creep 
Softly, lest they disturb my sleep. 

I am not dead. And while I live 
The forest cannot yet forgive 
My life. Oh! But I’m glad that I 
Shall be forgiven — when I die! 


51 


ONE OF US 


She passed; in silks and golden fur; 

In motor, whose unending purr 
Was like an ocean, deep and slow. 

She passed. I stood and watched her go. 
How pale her face! And all the lace 
Of veiling could not hide her eyes 
In which I saw — as long before — 

A sick surprise. . . . 

Her tryst, now, is with death — ah, but 
She cannot cease to smirk and strut 
And, insincere, 

Struggling to quell some Phantom here, 
Moves on, a pitied, fearing Thing 
Through the gay world that does not bring 
Her rest. The crowded, gaudy street, 

The cackling fops, 

The tinted glitter of the shops, 

The noise and the sticky heat — 

All terms of life’s reality — 

Are but a painted mockery, 

Strange pictures’ held in trembling hands — 
Pictures nobody understands — 

For such as she! 


52 


Oh! Drive her on! And let her stare 
Dumbly from her glass prison there 
Upon the outer, polished shell 
Of being, that can hide so well 
The horrors of an inner Hell 
She feels, but that she cannot see — 

Yet dreads, in her mortality. 

Soon there shall creep unwept, away, 
Into unnumbered Yesterday, 

A life that, living, never knew 
It lived, nor dying, death was true. 


53 


YVONNE 


How gay her laughter! 
(Yet a fool knows 
Storms lie in sunsets, 
Thorns in a rose.) 

How sweet her face is! 
(No one can see 
Worms that are gnawing 
Roots of a tree.) 

How red her lips are! 
(Could a man guess 
Their wine were poison 
For lips to press?) 


54 


WISDOM 


Watch but a leaf fall down, too soon, 
From off the tree that bore it. 

See but a flower blanch and swoon 
Because a maiden wore it. 

Follow an echo till it ends, 

Dream but one dream that’s broken — 
You have learned wisdom that transcends 1 
All that is ever spoken. 


55 


A SECRET 


There in the forest, under the dew — 

(You’d laugh if I told — if ever you knew!) 

Under the heaped up needles of Pine 
Lies buried — your letter. 

It was so slim and so cold — so stiff! 

It was quite dead; and I thought, then, that if 
Words died — yes, even your words' and mine, 
Dear, it were much better 

To lay them down in some quaint, far place, 

We had loved together. Is there disgrace 
In loving and ceasing to understand? 

In dreaming — forgetting? 

Oh, but I wish you had been there, too! 

It was so quiet, and I tried to do 
This last thing bravely, and yet my hand 
Trembled. Was I letting 

My own life into the little grave 

That I had made? It was hard to be brave! 

Oh! Even the shadows bent and cros’t 
My heart. The birds withdrew. 

56 


And there your letter will lie — will lie. . . . 
Forever and ever — while you and I 
Wander, seeking the dreams we have lost. . . . 
Would you laugjh — if you knew? 


57 


APRIL 


Little fires of delight sweep me when the soft petals of 
a flower blow unexpectedly against my cheek, when a 
bird breaks its heart in a song, when the purple moss 
that falls always in the swamps, rocks gently, between 
pointed shadows. 

What a day it is! The long grass of the fields beats 
in pale, yellow ripples against the sky. The tips of 
Pine trees are swaying, stiffly. Above, a hawk is 
floating. 

It is as though somebody’s heart were throbbing 
under the earth — setting the fingers of the trees trem- 
bling, pulsing through the blades of grass. 

I run down the hill. Through my loose hair the 
wind flows like the breath of a sleeping giant. It is 
warm in the valley. There, it is the bosom of the world. 
Spring leans there first, star-eyed and eager. . . . 

Out of the branches of Willows rosy-gray balls are 
bursting. I tear one away. How soft it is! How 
gentle! I press the furry bud against my cheek. 

Clouds are lurching in the sky — splintering, and roll- 
ing away. It is 1 very quiet. 


58 


CHANT OF THE SEA 


Who loves to kiss my lips at night 
Knows they are cold, knows they are white. 
Who lays his head upon my breast 
Shudders. I give eternal rest. 

Come! Merge your little lives in me! 

I am the Sea. I am the Sea. 

A million ages are, and go. 

I laugh at them. I do not know 
The lash of time, the laws of death. 

I pant with being, and my breath 
Goeth, and bloweth back to me. 

I am the Sea. I am the Sea. 

Unnumbered Dawns have poured their light 
Over my pulsing limbs. The bright, 

Gold stars dropt down into my arms, 

Men swooned beneath my cruel charms. 
Think not to know the depths of me! 

I am the Sea. I am the Sea. 

Sometimes I stretch myself out prone 
Beneath the sky, and all alone 
Whisper unto faint worlds above 
59 


The endless secret of my love. 

Sometimes I rear myself and fling 
My arms around the cliffs, and sing. 

Sometimes I laugh. Often my hair 
I tie with long white ribbons fair, 

And dance until the young clouds break 
Their hearts into the chords I make. 

Then, if you dare, come dance with me! 

I am the Sea. I am the Sea. 

Oh! I can teach you how to hate 
As well as love. Come be my mate! 

I’ll twine your throat with colored pearls, 
I’ll pin blue star-fish in your curls, 

And your warm body I shall hold 
Till it is white. Till it is cold. 

Then I shall hurl it suddenly 
Against the rocks. Then I shall flee, 

And, licking my pale lips with glee, 
Muttering incoherently, 

Recoil into Eternity! 

I am the Sea. I am the Sea. 


60 


THE UNSEEN 


In sunlit silences, 

Through midnight hours, 

I sought — I seek thee — Loveliness. . . . 

In the frail cups of flow’rs 
That dusk drenches, 

In the long, strange caress 
Of waves, and in the secret parts 
Of time, and within human hearts. 

Vanishing, beautiful, gone — when regainable, 
Dreamless I seek for thee, Dream unattainable! 

Is there a leaf that drops — 

Worlds that must fade? 

Is there a life that stops — 

Are new worlds made? 

Wonder and argument, 

Love, mystery, 

Sadness and merriment 
Lead but to thee. 

Does morning sweep the air 
With glist’ning wings — 

61 


Do children wander where 
A skylark singp — 

Are great words' spoken and 
Misunderstood — 

Are young thoughts broken and 
Lost, because good. . . . 

All that is sadly and 
Wondrously true, 

All that is gladly 
Eternal, or new. . . . 

Power unchanging and that yet changes all — 
Shadowing, shadowless one! Is aught small? 
Is aught great? Or seems anything most — or 
less — 

To thee in an universe — Loveliness? 


62 


THOUGHTS 


In sooth, I know not if I be 
In love with love — or love but thee! 
Hadst thou not better come and see? 

The moon is very round and white. 
Alone, I watch it, every night — 

Yet I am young — oh! what a plight! 

Each morning sees the sun arise 
And burst apart the bolted skies. 

It looks at me with its red eyes. 

And all day long the shadows fling 
Their arms about, and big clouds swing; 
And all day long the thrushes sing. 

Sometimes I wander near the brink 
Of waterfalls. Sometimes I drink. 
Sometimes I only stand and think. 

Sometimes I watch the twilight creep 
Across the hills, and then I sleep. 
Sometimes I lie awake, and weep. 

And all night long, stoops over me 
A thought — perhaps it is of thee. 

Dost thou not care to come and see? 

63 


TO A WATERLILY 


Here on my desk it lies, 

Glory of sun and air! 

Ivory, gold filigree, and green — 

How did it draw from the dulled sheen 
Of quiet pool and thick, staled ooze 
A life so brilliant and so fair? 

Cool, cooler than star wet skies — 

Child of Light and God’s dreaming, whose 
Soul fills all my own with fragrance — 
Poem unuttered and sublime 
That but an echo learns . . . and time. . . 

What! Fading? All your petals curl. . . 
Was my touch rough, sweet flower? 

Ah! would that I too might furl 
My life as yours, and in one hour 
Opened, as you — broken — turn whence 
I came; giving, as you have given yourself; 
thus close; 

Fade as a lily fades ... go as a lily goes! 


64 


BUBBLES 


It is hard to believe in Death. Death is so unlikely! 
Why should I believe in it? But perhaps it is true — 
yes, there are people who say that it is. And yet — 
how ridiculous. . . . 

I go into the garden. A little fountain is tumbling 
about. The sun cuts it through and through but the 
bubbles do not break. The bubbles are blue and 
yellow. They look as hard as stones. They are like 
colored pebbles under the sea. 

There are butterflies in the garden, too — thousands of 
them. It is as though the petals of the flowers had been 
torn away and sent floating through the wind. 

The grass is warm. When I stretch myself upon it 
it seems to me that I am lying upon a silk quilt — a 
quilt that is as big as the world. 

There are birds in the trees and I am glad that I 
do not know their names. I only want to shut my eyes 
and to laugh — to laugh softly, forever, all alone. It 
is wonderful to be alone! 

I am trying to believe in Death. The birds are sing- 
ing deliciously. The flowers are so quiet . . . they are 
listening. The world is a bubble too — squeezed be- 
tween crumpled clouds. How can I believe in Death? 
How can I believe in it . . . till the bubble breaks? 


65 


CHILDHOOD 


I loved, then, meadows softly sweet, 

Powdered with flow’rs, a cloud 

Edged thick with gold; the sobbing, fleet 

Song of a bird, the loud 

Moan of forests curbed low in grief; 

A star I loved — a world — a leaf — 

A daisy. Twilights and blue days, 

Wind, snowflakes, people’s eyes, 

A sled, a rabbit, and a dream. . . . 

Life was a long surprise. 

I loved the moon; I loved ice cream, 

And laughter, and to touch cool silk, 

Or velvet — loved the taste of milk. . . . 

I loved to run; I loved to feel 
The wind upon my face, 

Fingering all my curls and, too, 

I loved brown leaves; a place 

Where rich earth crumpled with cold dew 

Silvering all its perfumed cuts. 

I loved the soft, warm, crooked ruts 

Of wagon wheels through woody lanes 
Where white bloodroots trembled; 

Loved streams in abandon rushing 

66 


Past prim buds assembled 
At the grassy edges — hushing 
Vague music in the undertones 
Of water splashed on colored stones. 

I loved all, and I scarcely knew 

What I loved most — myself 

Or others — or the magic world 

With its unhoarded wealth 

Of tints and sounds and feelings whirled 

Together; I was but a part 

Of that which was and is — a heart 

That beat itself in rightful tune 
With creation. A spray 
Of purple blossoms touching me 
Could wound me, or could sway 
My soul in flaming ecstasy, 

And life — it only seemed as this — 

A lover’s endless passion kiss. 


67 


SELF 


I sing. A part of me 
Joins not in song. 

I move — the heart of me 
Moves not along. 

I speak — yet thoughts I know 
Are never spoken. 

I dream, but whence dreams go 
I have not token. 

Somewhere the soul of me 
Lags far behind. 

Somehow the whole of me 
I cannot find. 


68 


LAST NIGHT 


How still the night was! And I lay 
So quietly, and tried to pray. 

But all my thoughts' just whirled and flew 
Around Heaven, and back to you. 

I held your letter in my hand, 

And I tried hard to understand. 

But when I read it once again 
I knew not anything but pain. 

The moonlight trembled on the floor, 

Though I had bolted every door 

And window — moonlight speaks of you, 

It trembled — and I trembled too. 

There comes an hour when we find 
That all our life we have been blind. 

There comes an instant when we feel 
All other instants were unreal. 

So in the stillness of the night 
I learned this lesson, fought this fight, 

69 










And wept one last, long, time. The rest 
Is silence — and silence is best. 


























JUBILATE 


I am happy! 

Notoriously! 

Gloriously! 

Uproariously! 

To the tips of my toes 
My blood a-tingle goes! 

My limbs are white! 

My soul is light! 

Sing! Little birds your funny melodies! 

Fling! Little winds your arms around the trees! 
Pour! Brimming sun your wine into the sky! 
You are not madder 
Or gladder 
Than I! 


Into my drifting hair 
I pin moon-flowers rare; 

My cheeks are stained, you see, 

With the red youth in me! 

Dance! Little elves in the blue forest shade! 
Kiss! Poor young lovers who sigh 
71 


For the love you will lose — the love you made — 
You are not happy as I! 

Happy am I! 

Curiously ! 

Furiously! 

Flauntingly ! 

Tauntingly! 

Pass me not by! 


72 


A PRAYER 


God, is' it sinful if I feel 
His arms about me when I kneel 
To pray? His arms that thrilled and drew 
Me along paths the world’s youth knew? 

Or is it sin if I mistake 
Eternity for time' — and break 
One instant from the dust of years 
To mix with ecstasy, and tears? 

God, oh my God, the way is long 
Alone. Can it be very wrong 
To dream of ways I did not tread? 

To weep for words I never said? 


73 


CHAPTERS 


We who love life — we who love all 
That is — shadow pierced and tall 
Trees bent with a golden weight 
Of sun; and flowers, dreaming late; 

Ferns that lingeringly unfold 

Green souls; and all the naked, cold 

Clouds that wander across hills' — 

We who have heard, when silence fills 
A night, the laughter of a star, 

And who have trod where wonders are; 

We who have touched an angel’s wings, — 

Who listen — if an angel sings. . . . 

What matter if the hungry earth 
And sea and air reclaim us? Mirth 
Is ours and the sweet agony 
Of love — that which was' or can be — 

We know, together. Let us stand 
And read the instants, hand in hand, 

Till they grow dim, till we divine 
Not their full meaning — the last line 
Holds yet, perhaps, some strange, clear truth — 
Proves death another, fairer youth. 


74 


FRAGMENTS 


I am a part of all things seen, 

Of all that is; of all that’s' been; 

I am part dust of world and sky, 
And I am Thought that cannot die. 

TO M. B. JR. 

There is not wealth, nor the acclaim 
Of multitudes — there is no fame 
I would not forfeit to one end — 

The “good! I like this!” of a friend. 


75 


THE BARRIER 


If I look in another’s eyes 
It is your eyes I see. 

If a hand touches mine I think 
It is yours touches me. 

All laughter bears the undertone 
Of yours, all tears the pain, 

All life the ecstasy you gave 
Me once — and took again. 

Is it not strange that I who tread 
Youth’s flowered, careless way, 

Cannot forget the dreams we made, 

The words' we spoke, one day? 

Must always your heart beat between 
My heart and others? Will 

The mem’ry of your kisses seal 
My lips to others, still? 

Life were too sweet, perhaps, could we 
Make real the thoughts we know — 

Death is not sad for those who weep. 
God has ordained it so. 

76 


STARS 


The night is like black crystal sprinkled with gold. 
I sit beside my mother on the high seat of the carriage 
and feel the night pressing against us — closer, closer, it 
presses — as though it would crush us between thick 
shadows. 

My mother talks of many things but I do not try to 
understand. I hear only the silence of the night and I 
wonder why silence is loud. 

Then my mother says “Look at the stars!” 

And I look up. It is the first time I behold them though 
I have seen them many times before. 

Stars ! 

I have seen them and forgotten them. Now I see — 
and afterward I do not forget. Suddenly I love them. 
Oh ! how I love them ! They speak to me, and I answer 
softly, in a whisper — for we know only wonderful 
things. 


77 


FANTASY 


Under the moon I lie 
And sing. 

Breezes die, 

And the big stars swing 
Like rosaries in a purple sky, 

Like golden beads on a velvet ground. 

I count them there. . . . 

To count is a prayer 

That does not end, and that does not sound — 

A prayer I found 

Under the moon as I lay and sang 

To the moon top, where the star-beads hang. 

And my rosary, star on star, 

Loops the universe round — so far 
That I cannot see 
Where its end may be. 

But ever I pray 
For I think, one day, 

I shall break and toss 
My body free 
And kiss the cross 
Of my rosary! 

Wet is the moonlight, 

78 


And it is cold, 

And it is white. 
Fold on pale fold 
It covers me deep 
And I fall asleep. . 


TO LIFE 

Life! Wrap your arms about me 
Tightly. . . . 

For they are cruel and strong, 

For they are brown and long, 

And they can reach me. 

Teach me 

To love the pain 

Of your embrace. Again, 

Oh, teach me not to strain 
From out it! 

Life, you are like a man 
Passionate and proud. I can 
Not live and doubt it. 

Take me, life! I would feel 

Your great heart beat 

And steal 

All the wild heat 

Of you, flaming to meet 

And sear through 

What is not real. . . . 

Oh! I am sick of dreams! 

Sick of a world that seems 

80 


Fed upon shadows. ... Do 
Take me, life, when you will, 
And my pale being thrill 
With the red strength of you 


81 


WAITING 


Foolish one, 

I love you so! 

Can it be 

You do not know? 

Timid one, 

But come to me! 

I am bound — 

And you are free. 

Where the shadows 
On the grass 
Stretch pale bodies — 
There I pass. . . . 

Where the sunlight 
Runs in streams, 

I have laid my 
Little dreams. 

In the darkness, 

All alone, 

I have heard the 
Ages moan. 


82 


There is nothing 
Love makes plain 
That I have not 
Learned again, 

There is nothing 
That I do 
Done without a 
Thought of you. 

Foolish one! 

And youth must go — 

Can it be 

You do not know * . . ? 


83 


MARRIAGE 


Close, little door of my heart 
Against the winds of the world! 

To faces, voices, and tears 
Close, like a flower furled 
At dusk. Once, wide apart 
Your portals flew 
At Dawn. The heedless years 
Entered. Then you, 

Filled with dull pain, 

Shut not again. 

Close, little door of my heart! 

Today there has entered in 
Through the years 
And the tears, 

Through voices, and faces, sin, 
Weariness, — one Face, one Voice — 
And now — rejoice! 

Close! And you prison there 
In the dim chapel where 
Strangers and fools paraded 
And youth faded, 

Him, for whose coming you swung 

84 


A-jar; 

Him, for whose soul you flung 
So far 

The rusted key 
Of mystery. 

Close, little door! Never 
Fear but your lock is strong — 
Stronger than love is long! 
Close . . . forever. . . . 


85 


THE PAST 


It is best, perhaps, that we cease to care, 

Having once cared finely, sweetly, 

Best that, in parting, we meet despair 
One instant, proudly, fleetly. 

It is best that, loving, we did not spill 
Out all our young passion madly, 

That we turned our eyes aside, still 
Pass one another sadly. 

Yet what instants we might have known, each 
In dizziest union thrilling! 

What ecstasy, what recompense 
Of love with more love filling! 

Or what unimagined glories had seen, 

Or dreams Paradise had disdained — 

All this — all this that might have been — 

Cannot ever be regained. 


sense 


86 


CRY OF A DEAD POET 


See, stranger, my grave! Grasses sway 
Over me, and your gleaming Day 
Sinks not beneath the frost chilled ground 
Where I have found 
Relief. 

I, too, have trod the worn way 
Of grief — 

I too have loved and suffered, and 
Have agonized to understand. . . . 

I, too, have smiled. 

And now black, stiffened earth is piled 
Over my thought. 

Almost, I caught 

The hem of a swift floating gown 
Of light, sweeping 
Beyond our life — 

Almost had sung 

Its wonder — when a dripping knife 
Severed my frantic hands that clung — 
And I was flung 
Down, down. . . . 

Weeping. . . . 


87 


THE LAST GOODNIGHT 


Goodnight! 

The day that was so full of sun — 

The little day that was begun 
So brilliantly, and just for me, 

Is ending. Twilight, quietly, 

Is creeping to its burnished rim 
And worlds are dim. . . . 

Goodnight ! 

A strange wind clasps the fading hills 

And strangeness fills 

The valleys'. Naked now, and stark, 

Out of the dark 

Shadows are lifting, 

And I am drifting 
Upon them. . . . 

Goodnight! 

The last rays fall along 
My life, and like a song 
Too gently sung — Day goes; 

Silence flows 
Over me ... . 


88 


TO A YOUNG POET 


Let not the laughter of a world 
Silence one song. 

Raise up thy voice and sing! 

Art liveth long. 

Demand not praise. Nor praise nor 
blame 

Can make thee less 
Oi greater. Bend thy heart 
To Loveliness. 

Feel, if thou can’st, the grandeur of 
An unseen God. 

Trace, if thou can’st, His touch 
Beneath the sod. 

Be quiet. A million secrets 
Then shalt thou hear. 

Walk humbly; and angels 
Thou shalt come near. 

Love. And yet wonder not if thou 
Art not loved too, 

For thou must suffer more 
Than others do. 


89 


DEATH 


Death lives in every flow’r 
That grows. 

Death flows 
In every hour, 

And blows 

Around a woman’s heart. . . . 

In part 
Death leaves 
Its traces 
In faces, 

Is found 

In the warm smell of ground 
Fresh turned, 

In the white smoke of burned, 
Fragrant dreams; 

In bright streams 
Pouring out glory 
Death weaves a story 
Of sadness. 

Life is but a farewell, 

And life’s gladness 
A halting tale we tell 
90 


Upon the edge of Time, 
A broken rhyme 
We try to sing 
And, failing, fling 
Away. . . . 


91 


MEMORY 


The thought of you is like a wound. 

It comes when I am most happy. 

And then my happiness bleeds, 

And falls in thick drops out of my 
heart, 

Until my body and my soul are white — 

White with the stiff whiteness of dead 
things. 

The thought of you is like a splash 
of stars 

Against hot nights. 

It is like song, whose lilt I cannot 
catch. 

It is the coolness of a woman’s hand, 

Caressing. 

It is a little glimpse of God 

Through the gray shutters of 
Life. . . . 


92 


THE ARTIST’S FEAR 


Is it a waste of time to dip 
My pen into rich sun 
That lies in puddles all about 
Since Morning was begun? 

Is it a waste of time to spread 
Bright colors on a page 
That will be glued into a book 
And shut, as in a cage? 

Is it worth while to dream and hope, 
To love and work and pray, 

When like a book I shall be read 
And closed, and put away? 


93 


TO C. E. K. 


Last night I dreamed 
I was a little girl once more, 

And you — you seemed, 

As in those days of yore — 

A Presence lovely, yet remote, 
Farthest when near, 

Strange, but most dear — 

Like a high note 

Which, faintly heard, we strain 

To hear again. . . . 

And in my dream 

There was a field of daisies, white 
As drifted snow, 

And a small stream 
Pale bloodroot rimmed, where I 
would go 

To gather buds for you. . . . 

A summer’s night 
Washed in cold dew — 

Stars, and the slow, infinite drone 
Of locusts. In the dusk, alone, 

I listened for your voice, a child 
Whose world was Eden if you smiled. 
94 


And in my dream such tears 
As only Youth can brew, 
Bewilderments, vague longings, fears 
And hopes because of you. 

The dim road beckons; we will tread 
Where you have trodden first, ahead — 
So was it always, you would be 
A little further on than we! 


95 


SOME DAYS 


Some days my voice is mute, my heart 

Quite empty, and I tread 

All silently, with lagging steps, 

The path that leads ahead. 

Some days I cannot understand 
The loveliness of rest, 

But stumble onward, with hands clenched, 
Upon an endless quest. 

The birds still sing. I do not hear. 

The stars crowd all the sky. 

The beauty of the world puts out 
Its arms — and I pass by. 

Half blind, half deaf, aware — yet cold — 
I pass, and human eyes 
Look into mine and turn away 
Sadly, in hurt surprise. 


96 


ON RETURNING A PIPE 


Take back your pipe! 

What need to tell 

The story that you know full well? 
Upon the mantlepiece it lay 
In haughty pride, as though to say, 
“Oh careless mortals, pause! behold! 
He cherished me, yet I am cold — 

He loved me, now his lips on mine 
Draw fire from my heart 
No more. I pine 
For him and still my part 
In all his life is small. 

Pause, mortals, pause! 

I symbol am 

Of what you, too, will come to know. 
Old friendships and familiar things, 
Smiles, dreams, far hopes', all that life 
brings, 

One day like me 
Forgot will be, 

And Time’s long fingers, deft and tried, 
Will lay you on the shelf aside! 


97 


CRITICS 


Like bees that suck a flower’s heart 
And buzz importantly, 

And sting who interrupts their meal — 
So Critics seem to me. 

Scarce has a wee bud opened wide 
Its petals to the sun, 

Than many bees assemble and 
Invade it, one by one. 

They crawl into its inmost soul, 

Down where the seedlets are, 

And drink its fragrance, smudge its 
gown, 

And leave a tiny scar. 

The kindest bee is very rough — 
May abuse his powers, 

And, (sometimes without knowing it,) 
Wounds the sweetest flowers. 

Men say that bees are useful, and 
Make delicious honey, 

And that “good” bees are always 
worth 

A vast sum of money. 

98 


But I have seen a baby rose 
All pale and trembling, try 
To hide her head as a bee flew 
Inquisitively by. 


99 


THE ANSWER 


“Do I love you?” This you ask, 

Setting me the hardy task 

Of all time, and rhyme, and youth, 

As you whisper, “Tell the truth”. . . 

So I ponder 

While out yonder 

The transparent moon swings low, 

And a bird calls, 

And a star falls, 

But the answer — can I know? 

Suns and planets, winds and flowers, 
Nights and days and misty hours, 
Clouds, a pearl, a butterfly — 

Things eternal, things that die — 

Are glad in being; 

Strong, not seeing 

Through the dimness. At each turn 
I am doubting, 

And am pouting, 

And I am afraid to learn. 

If to love you is to know 
Where the twilight purples go, 

And the glory 


100 


Of a story 

Dreamed — if loving is to drink 
Out of sadness, 

Out of madness. . . . 

Why, I love you then ... I think. . 


101 


A SUICIDE’S PRAYER 


Oh ! Blue- white stream ! 

Listen! Could I but tear 
My sad heart out, and there 
Under your sweetness, 

Under your fleetness 
Hold it an instant, 

Would it not then soon be 
Of its dark stains washed free? 
Would it not beat as wild 
As the heart of a child? 

But, Blue-white stream, 

I cannot wrench it free 

From the black depths of me. . . . 

Come then! Dash over me! 

Break, you, my flesh apart, 

Find, you, this prisoned heart — 
Touch it with your cool lips, 
And on a wave that slips 
Into Immensity 
Whisper a memory. . . . 


102 


THE COQUETTE 


Tonight before my mirror blue 
I stand. Candles at either side 
Flicker. A pinkish, orange hue 
Sinks in the glass. 

Oft I have tried 

To know myself in that strange face 
Confronting me between the lace 
Of shadows. Yes! its true — its true 
I’m young — and I am passing fair! 
Ringlets I have, of auburn hair, 
Each light entangled curl inwrought 
With finest gold, and my dark eyes 
Are large and soft, my skin is white, 
My lips made for a kiss — 

(There’s one who tries — 

As others might — 

To prove their worth, in this!) 

See! not a wrinkle does begin 
To squirm, wormlike, upon my skin! 
Come nearer! nearer! stand by me — 
Gaze in the mirror too, and see 
How fair I am! Really, almost 
I’d like to kiss myself — were not 
103 


The gloom so deep ... so thick ... a 
ghost, 

Almost, to my own eyes, I seem — 

No! But a lovely, untold dream — 

An angel’s dream ... by one forgot. . . 

How strange! As though the vision were 
Not I! As though the unheard stir 
Of formless things had wafted her 
Between the dimness and the light 
Into my mirror here — tonight! 

I gaze and gaze . . . queerly she smiles 
And watches me out of the haze, 

Lays fingers on her lips, and piles 
Of shadows lurch and fall and blow 
More closely round her, like the flow 
Of gray, innumerable years. 

Now tell me, do you think it tears 
That make her lovely eyes so bright? . . . 
The woman in my glass . . . tonight? . . . 

I thought I knew her! Oft before 
We’ve played upon a distant shore, 
Laughing together, hand in hand 
Strayed down some little flowered slope 
Of life . . . and now I grope . . . and 
grope. . . . 

And touch her not, nor understand 
How she can smile, how she can weep. . . 
The shadows are thick, shadows creep 
Over and under — everywhere — 

104 


Along the smoothness of her throat, 

Into the glory of her hair 

And eyes, and ever more remote 

Her gestures. Tell me — is it shame — 

Or is it but the candle flame — 

Floods those lovely cheeks with lire? 

Do you think it is desire? ... 

I had believed she could not bow 
That proud young head . . . and now . . . 
and now. . . . 

We’re strangers — but I know not why — 
The woman in the glass, and I! 


105 


THE DREAMER 


I am as one who only stands 
And carves 1 a name upon the sands — 

A wanderer — lost to the world — 
Upon a misty island hurled. 

I am a ship-wrecked dreamer there 
In a sad Paradise more fair 
Than dreams, where but a dream is left 
To love, since of a God bereft. 

On sands of life my dreams I lay, 

But Time, the ocean, floods Today — 
Tomorrow’s beach is polished clean 
By waves that creep where I have been. 


106 


TO J. P. K. 


Words . . . words . . . how can words 
always flow 

When this — and only this I know — 
That you are dead? There, in some 
room, 

There, in the empty gloom 
Are laid! God, have you made 
The glory of our little day 
To sweep it utterly away? 

(I falter, and my faith is weak. 
Eternal One! Lean down and speak 
To me! I’m blind. ... I cannot see 
Your face, or find in mystery, 

Your answer. ... I beseech you, speak! 
Eternal One! I am so weak. . . .) 

Dearest, your life with mine was 
bound, 

Through childhood and through youth 
I found 

Your eyes upon me, and your hand 
In mine, and did not understand. 

Now you are dead. Dead. Dead. 
And the last prayer is said. . . . 

107 


Words . . . oh, I cannot write 
Calmly, is not the Night 
Between us? What is rhyme 
Crushed in the fist of Time? 




108 


A VIOLINIST 


You played. And then I closed my 
eyes 

And listened. Time 

Drifted away. The pale, young skies 

Bent to that lifted sacrament 

Of sound. I found 

Your soul in one white, naked note 

That, laughing, fell 

From Paradise 

In which you dwell. 


109 


POETS 


Poets, they tell me, do not care 
To live in cities — 

A thousand pities! 

Because it must be true that there 
Are poets everywhere — 

Even in cities. . . . 

If poets yearn 

For sun washed fields 

And Autumn woods aglow, 

If but the moods that Nature yields 
A poet longs to know — 

If he would watch a baby fern 
(And seek therein delight) 

Open its baby fist and turn 
Itself toward the light. . . . 

If poets cannot happy be, 

And poets cannot Beauty see 
Or wonder find 
In great cities — 

Poets are blind 
Weavers of ditties. 

For see! In every dingy town 
Sometimes the rain comes drifting 
down — 


110 


A million strands of silver thread 
Unwound, and overhead 
The round clouds, swinging gently, 
flow 

Between the house-tops, very low, 

And golden lamp-lights spill and sway 
Like dahlias on the street; 

Somewhere between the mist, Today 
Mingles with Night. Their breath 
is sweet. 

In cities, too, at twilight time 
A star floats very high 
Above the canyons red and gray 
Where little people work and play 
And laugh and weep and die. . . . 
And if you choose with me to climb 
Upon the faerie crest 
Of some gigantic palace, there, 

(A white wave held at rest) 

Then hand in hand we’ll stand above 
The foolish things we used to love, 
And watch the sun burst red and go 
Into the dimness far below. 

The city hums a sleepy song 
And cuddles down between the long 
Thick folds of greenish fog that creep 
Upon it and are soft and deep .... 

And all the world melts into blue — 
And space and life — and I and you — 
And silence brims into our thought. 
Ill 


We are but atoms, strangely caught 
In time, who ride 
An instant side by side, 

And in an instant fall 
Back, into All. 

Oh! Cannot poets ever see 
The poems in Eternity? 

And in great cities there are days 
Filled with a dusty sparkle-haze 
When every brick and every stone — 
Even the piles of rubbish thrown 
Aside, are painted glory tints 
You cannot buy with all the mints 
Of ages. Look ! 

White doorsteps glimmer smooth and 
clean, 

And on the pavements is a sheen 
Of varnish. Every edge and crook 
Of everything is dipped in bright 
Clear bubbling light, 

And, in every city Square, 

Children laugh forever there. . . . 

Go, Poets! Seek your woodlands, 
then! 

Forget this weary world of men! 

We are not poets — we remain 
To find its beauty in its pain. 


112 


MY JEWELS 


I have seen the swelling sun, 

Like a blood filled bubble, fall 
To the sharpened world, and burst on 
the tip 

Of a Pine tree that is tall. 

I have seen a clear, glass cloud, 

Painted with pink and with gray, 

Float to the top of the tilted gold cup 
Of the dawn, and spill away. 

I have heard a Woodpecker 
Beating the heart of a tree, 

And I have kissed naked young leaves that 
stretched 

Cold washed faces up to me. 


113 


HOURS 


Here on the hill I fling myself 
Deep in the sun-tipped grass. 

I am an elf! 

Green clad and glad! 

Stung with a mad 
Young love — and here I pass 
Round, shining hours 
While silent flow’rs 
Bend their gentle faces 
Above, out of places 
Hidden from men — 

Gold sprinkled corridors, 

Tiny, endless, that lead 
Through tufted shafts the laughing 
seed 

Of things that grow. . . . 

And here I know 

The secrets that your books can’t tell — 
Swift magic, and a twilight bell 
Rocking from out a distant town 
Tumbles the giddy sunset down 
Upon my head; 

And on this bed 


114 


Of swift, drifting, tingling glory 
I strain, I catch at the story 
I have not heard 
Told word on word. 

If the pale grass trembles, 

I tremble too. 

Night wanders, and the dew 
Falls from her eyes 
Upon my cheek. 

Her fingers slip through mine and 
speak 

Far things you would not understand — 
Far, broken things — and now my hand 
Is touched by One beyond our Time, 
And kissed by Lips beyond a 
rhyme. . . . 


115 


WHEN I AM DEAD 


The fires that toss through my clear 
blood — 

Soon these will cool to ashes; 

And all my love of love — this flood 
Of reaching life, that flashes 
Through me into the universe — 

This shall be hid by Time, the nurse, 
Who pulls a sheet across the face 
Of tortured Youth; and every trace 
Of me upon the earth I tread 
Shall be but earth — when I am dead. 


116 


POEMS 


I am tired of poems of love, the moon, 

Of stars and of passion and death — 

I am sick of odes upon Nature and Hope 
And Spring and its “balmy breath.” 

Must always the lines that poets contrive 
Be twisted the same foolish way? 

Have none of our poets who babble so much 
Got anything new to say? 

And yet, what is new? The world is so old! 
The universe never began! 

Sing, then! Little Shadows before you must 
fade! 

Sing! Little Phantoms called Man! 

The moon does not care if you think it fair — 
A rose is no redder for you, 

And the sky does not hear your praises, I 
fear, 

When it is a turquoise blue! 

Sing! Little Phantoms! Forget, in your 
songs, 

If you can — you live but Today — 

117 


Forget that your stars and your moons and 
your Springs 

Heed not at all what you say! 

For your moons and stars and Summers and 
Springs 

Move on with the long step of Time, 

And smile with a cruel and pitying smile 
Through Eternity at rhyme! 

Oh! Gather your queer little words and string 
Them out from the point of your pen, 

And study your metre, and torture your brain, 
And give to the Phantoms — Men — 

Wise little stupid melodious thoughts, 

And the Phantoms will shout your name — 
But your moon and stars, and your Summer 
and Spring 

Will never hear of your fame. 

Ages shall fall like a seamless white pall 
And bury your words in a pile — 

But the moon and the stars and Summer and 
Spring 

Smile an inscrutable smile. 


118 


THE WOODNYMPH 


Out in the forest all alone 
A woodnymph sits upon a stone 
Of amber, and she combs her hair 
And smiles — because she is so fair. 

An oval pool is at her feet, 

Twined with white moss and flowers sweet, 

And all day long upon the stone 

The woodnymph sits, and dreams alone 

The big trees love her, shut her out 
From eyes of men, and all about 
Stretch bearded, gentle faces down 
And touch her, and pretend to frown. 

The shadows yearn — but never dare 
To twist themselves into her hair, 

And all day long she combs it through 
And laughs — what can a lover do? 

He can slay all the selfish trees! 

He can find her and he can seize 
Her little hands — so small — so white — 
That fold his dreams into the night! 

119 


Woodnymph! Combing your sun-drenched 
hair! 

Laughing and sighing — dreaming there 
In the dim forest all alone 
Upon a polished amber stone — 

Do you believe I cannot break 
That little comb of yours and take 
You from the sobbing forest and 
Kiss you until you understand? 


120 


LAUGHTER 


“Beauty is sadness” . . . once I smiled 
When men spoke thus. I was a child 
Of laughter then — and laughter mad — 

I smiled, if men called beauty sad. 

And all my merry, wise youth through 
I laughed and laughed — till I met you. . . . 
And then I stopped; then laughter seemed 
A sort of noise that I had dreamed. 

But this is strange ... I’d rather be 
Possessed of just one memory 
Of you — than to forget love’s pain 
And have my laughter back again! 


121 


WEDDING OF NATURE AND A SOUL 


It is my wedding day! The dawn 
Laughs out across the hills. 

The sleepy Pine trees wake, and yawn 
And stretch, and wonder fills 
My cup of life to its gold brim. . . . 

I wait — I wait alone — for him! 

Long we have loved. When but a child 
I felt strange lips on mine — 

Now swiftly opened, beating wild 
Wings touch me, a divine 
Tremor shakes all the world — a sigh 
Of dreams that only yearn to fly. 

And so I wait. Blinded joy feels 
Its way through thought. I wait. 

A stupid, rosy Cupid steals 
My veil — shoots arrows late. 

Young flowers titter; then I see 
Them weeping dewy tears for me. 

Will he forget? But hush ... oh 
hush . . . 

He comes! The forest bends 
To meet him, and the pale clouds blush — 
He comes! Now he descends 
122 


Upon me ... oh! His arms are strong! 
Oh! I have loved him — loved him long! 

Sing, forest! Every tiny leaf 
Burst out your veins with song! 

Cling, flowers, to us! All belief 
In Beauty’s to belong 
To Beauty, and to hold it fast 
An instant, ere it flashes past. 


123 


SEA-GULLS 


Against the evening sky 
Hosts of great Sea-gulls fly 
In slanting bars. 

Is it not strange that they 
Should know a trackless way 
Among the stars? 


124 


ECSTASY 


To the smooth, cool, sun-washed dome 
Of a hill I crept. 

The forest slept. 

I was far from home. 

Far, far from home! 

White grasses fell 
In waves against me. I could tell 
Where Pines pricked open Paradise. 
In me burst a mad surprise. 

I stood and flung my arms out wide. 
Youth was in me! Could I hide 
Its glory? And the trees stooped wet 
And bare; oh! could I forget 
That I was young? 

Clouds were lilies. Down they swung 
In loose garlands from the skies. 
Perfume stung my heart. My eyes 
Were blind with light — then I trod, 
Laughing sadly, up to God. 


125 


A PORTRAIT 


Your eyes are strange. I do not know 
Their color, nor their meaning, though 
I’ve searched them secretly to find 
The secret thing that is your mind. 

Woman with the cold red lips 
And pale, strong hands! Your spirit dips 
Far into mine and drinks — but I 
Tremble when I pass you by. 

Ah, may I never touch that hand? 

Or kiss those eyes? ... or understand? 

I love you! But you only smile 
Sadly, and for a little while. . . . 


126 


FLOWERS 


The Master Painter mixes 
His colors far on high, 

And sweeps them soft at evening 
Across the empty sky. 

Faint blue and gold and carmine, 
Purple, silver, and green, 

Mingle and throb in sunsets, 
Shimmer and fade and gleam. 

Tints on that mighty easel 
Fade in the distant hush, 

Only flowers' are left us — 

The drippings from his brush. . . . 


127 


PLATITUDES 


“Creatures of Time!” 

The hackneyed phrase 
Sings over dully in my brain 
Through sunlit days. . . . 

And joy . . . and pain. . . . 

“Creatures of Time!” 

What more? And yet 
We strut long futile hours 
through 

Laughing, forget 
What once we knew. 

The endless tide 
Sweeps on, and we, 

Sinking, stretch out our hands to 
grasp, 

And smile to see 
Bright things flit past. 


128 


TO THE MUSE 


God of the Tints and Tones 
No Art can teach! 

Power above the thrones 
I may not reach! 

Glance down out of Infinity 
And pity me . . . and pity 
me. . . . 

Only a twisted note is flung 
To earth as your vast song is sung, 
Only a bubble drifts to me 
Out of your spangled symphony. 


129 


SUPPLICATION 


Thou whom we name flippantly. . . .God. . . . 
Oh vast uncreated! 

To whom we mouth our greedy lips 
In countless words freighted 
With futile wants — Who alone grips 
The stars between strong fingers, hears 
All silently our little fears. . . . 

Thou, who hast woven Ages, and 

Whose blood as energy 

Nourishes worlds — Thought Unsleeping, 

Unsolved, Eternity 

Itself — Behold! We are weeping, 

Wanting Thee — time wound tops that dance 
Awhile, and break on Circumstance. 

Art thou sad, oh Being Eternal? 

Art thou sad? 

Or is our weeping naught to Thee? 

Are we mad? 

Dost Thou laugh, Being Eternal? See 
Our individual life released 
At death — in other forms increased? 

What we called “soul” in us poured down 
As sunlight on a star? 

130 


What we called “flesh” crushed into dust 
And all we were and are 
Made something else? Creator, must 
Our little hopes but fall apart 
As fall the pulsings of our heart? 

I do not know — when shall I know? 

And yet I do believe 

That Thou who called me into being, 

Canst not myself deceive 
Forever into feeling, seeing 
Thyself in everything, if Thou 
Art to me nothing then, or now. 

Why make me, Lord, to seek Thee if 
The search is but a jest? 

Why tempt me, Lord, to find Thee if 
To lose Thee were my rest? 

Why does my spirit, like a skiff 
Shattered against a rocky shore 
Still love the Sea that floods it o’er? 

Thou are not cruel . . . Thou are not cruel. . 
In this I place my trust, 

And, trusting, lift my eyes to Thee 
Because I must. ... I must. . . . 

Grant then, Creator, that I see 
Thyself at last, or do now close 
My eyes from seeing, like a rose 

That lives, indeed, and living, sheds 
Its beauty — just a flow’r 


That yearns not passion, yearns 1 not love, 
Feels not, is but an hour 
Becoming, hopes not things above 
Itself — is happy for it knows 
Always, only, it is a rose. 


132 


SNOW 


V 


Over the city washed with gray 
The snow-flakes sway. . . . 

Sway, and mingle, and gently fall 
And touch the dirty street, where all 

Noise is hushed. The loose clouds 
flow 

Against the world. Sparks of snow 
Drift, like petals through the skies, 
From a rose in Paradise. 

My life is like a snow-flake. I 
Float an instant on the sigh 
Of ages, swelled with light — and free — 
Strangers soon will trample me. 


133 


TO A FRIEND 


Sometimes your spirit touches mine 
But you, I think, do not divine ' 

The instant when the two entwine. . . . 

I am a brook. 

You are the sea. 

Am I to you what 
You are to me? 

My shallows turn to depth in you, 

My colors burn a clearer hue, 

And blackness, rippling in my heart, 
Gathers to waves that burst apart 
In majesty 
When you touch me. 

You are the sun. 

I — a flow’r 
Daring to love you 
For an hour. . . . 

Can a sun know that its vast light 
Fondles a petal till the tight 
Closed bud unfolds, 

And fragrance holds? 


134 


CONFESSION 


The world’s a dream to me, I know 
Whate’er I do, where’er I go, 

If plunged in vast affairs of state 
Nor let my actions time abate, 

Though every instant pregnant be 
With deeds of sound reality, 

Yet all life and all actions seem 
The floating rainbow of a dream, 

A colored, sun-shot drift of spray 
Waft of an ocean depths away, 

A star-spun web of Beauty not 
Vanished a moment till forgot. 

And yet each instant, though unreal, 
Vibrates with wonder, and I feel 
The inner, mystic Mind that wills. 

And with hot force each atom thrills. 

We hate and clash, we little men, 

Make peace — then hate and clash again — 

And build a garden or a town 

To, when its finished, tear it down. 

Like puppets are we wound and set 
To rush about, and fume and fret 
And grasp, and in a tumble vie 
135 


With one another till we die? 

And then like insects too profuse 
Earth mingled be, and find our use 
In richening the clay? The gain? 

A flower brighter for our pain! 

Volumes I’ve read, and pondered slow, 
More than the common man to know; 

Yet all of knowledge comes to this — 
We are, and while we are, seek bliss. 
There is a something in our soul, 

Urging the part to find the whole — 

Life argues God. We strain to see, 
And finite yearns Infinity. 

Music, the written word, all Art’s 
Symbolic of the groping heart 
Of man which, in its highest reach, 
Teaches in that it fails to teach. 

The beauty of our life is such 
We only soil it when we touch 
Its form with analytic skill — 

Science, life mocks, and lures us still 
To marvel and applaud, adore 
Its Maker and attempt no more. 

Not that we should but blindly stare 
The Universe, quite unaware, 

Or take for granted all we see 
Not questioning how it may be, 

But that, in seeking, we refrain 
To set the key at lower plane. 

136 


Because creation’s pitch is high 
For us to sing, must we then try 
To warp the octave, scales to change, 
And thus its harmony derange? 

Is it not wonderful to be — 

To think and feel, to do and see — 

And yet, in being, know that all 

Oneself and every thought is small? 

Set like a pin point t’wixt two seas 
Of ignorance, we strain and seize 
At straws of knowledge — theories dim — 
And, with this aid, essay to swim 
Toward an unchartered goal. We pride 
Ourselves on Reason and decide 
Naught is, that Reason cannot mark; 

Of life, has Reason found the spark? 

Belief in God but once denied 
This Reason wavers, and is dyed 
In bogs of speculation thick 
With Contradictions. There we stick 
And, sinking, do not extricate 
Ourselves until it is too late. 

Think, fool! Look up! If we could see 
All that that Is then would we be 
Not man, but God — and have no need 
Of Wonderment, of Faith or Creed — 
Or Past or Future. But since you 
Created are, then it is true 
137 


In your weak state you cannot hope 
Doors of all mysteries to ope 
And through Creation’s Portals gape. 

Oh men ! who claim that from an ape 
You sprang, yet, still assured, intend 
To sway the Planets — God transcend 
And put away! Were your vaunts not 
So pitiful much mirth, I wot, 

They’d brew in Heaven — but, scarce spoke, 
The speaker dies. His brain is broke 
In bits by worms and he is done. 

(Still all the universe can run.) 

Ages repeat, our Reason used 
Aright, is never sense abused — 

Endow dead earth with heart and mind — 
Say: *herb, beast, man, are of one Kind 
And from the one the other drew 
Out life,” is but to trace anew 
God’s work. A thousand epochs can 
Not in mere time account for man 
Design left out. Seek not to tell 
Us chance has ruled all things thus well 
And order keeps. Star beyond star 
Moves in its ordained groove. Afar, 
Unnumbered worlds revolving see 
Controlled. Their awful majesty 
Veiled in distance, lest we feel, 

Sickened with dread, that God is real. 

Above the universe He waits 
Eternally; loves; recreates. 

138 


Meanwhile we live, or think we do — 

A cramped existence. It is true 
We know not much — but be content 
Our souls are up — not downward — bent; 

Part of the circle now we scan — 

All of it soon — the perfect Plan 

At last we’ll see, and until then 

Mark how the patterns fit! My pen 

Is guided by a Hand unseen 

Till it must move, and all I mean 

To say is spoken by a Voice 

Through me. And I have little choice 

Of words, but still must write — nor try 

To pause. So write, scarce knowing why 

Or what. This Power urging me 

Is the same conscious Energy 

Moving vast worlds — and men speak wrong 

Who say the Poet makes his song. 


139 


A CHILD 


I am very small and important, and I demand to be 
loved. Always, I want you to love me — but there is 
something sad in you, something far away. 

I like to kiss you, and if you do not kiss me in re- 
turn, I weep . . . but you never know. For I weep 
at night in bed, where I lie with my rag doll clenched 
in my arms and am alone. 

Then it seems to me that the world is lonely because 
you are not with me, and because I have kissed you, 
but you have not cared. 

I listen to the locusts humming . . . humming . . . 
in the garden, and I wonder. . . . Why do you not 
love me? I am very small, and I am so important, and 
it is so necessary that I be loved ! 

Oh, if you understood! 

One morning I rush to you, laughing. I am happy, 
and it seems to me that you must be happy too. I 
fling my arms about you and wait. But you look at 
me strangely — and forget to smile. . . . 


140 


A WORD 


There is a word I hate — 
And you have used it, 
Mocking my trust in Fate — 
Others excused it. 

What is this little word 
That I abhor — 

This that I have not heard 
You speak before? 

Ah, but you know it well! 
And you are clever! 

The meaning is “farewell” — 
The word is — '“never.” 


141 


ALONE 


Voices and faces, laughter, tears — 

And great halls filled with Youth, 

And little twisted roads where years 
Slip past the thing called Truth. . . . 

Through these I walk, and hardly know 
For what I seek, yet fling 
My arms out wide to catch the sun — 
And touch not anything. 

Flesh is but Shadow wrapped in cloth, 
And Soul I cannot see, 

And all the turmoil of the earth 
Is like a dream to me. 

Why do ye laugh, who are so gay? 
Why weep, who are so sad? 

The children of our little day 
Are beautiful — and mad. 

So I must pass (I know not if 
It is your fault or mine) 

Unloved, alone, I must pass on 
To where all paths entwine. . . . 

142 


And God will take us in His arms — 
The sinners and the good— 

And smile away the tears of those 
Who have misunderstood. 


143 


A WALK 


In the taut silence of the wood 
Where Angels tread, 

Fingers on lips, 

And overhead 

Brown clouds' are twisted round the tips 
Of trees that brush 
Warm dreams against the sky, and hush 
Time with long whispers, as it slips 
Under the stillness — there we stood; 

And you — you talked of foolish things, 

And laughed out loud — 

The pale, star-dripping veil that swings 
Back from the proud 
Black head of Night, fluttered, and swept 
Over my heart. ... I could have wept, 

Then, because you did never feel 
The kiss of groping thoughts that steal 
Out of the world — nor breath of wings 
Passing . . . but talked — of foolish things. . 


144 


A GARDEN 


My garden’s quaint. 
And it is bright 
With golden light 
And rainbow paint. 

A tiny pond 
Is set in grass. . . . 
A looking-glass 
For all beyond. 

Great pigeons sway 
On snowy wings. 

The fountain sings; 
The wind blows gay. 

The shadows sift, 

And butterflies 
In thousands' rise — 
Petals adrift. 


145 


WHILE YOU TALK 


Sometimes, when you have been talking 
Of houses, and people, and things, 

A mad, up-leaping fire flings 
Me far — I hear not what you say 
For I am swept into a Day 
That is, was, and shall ever be — 

A day of that Eternity 
You can forget. 

And when you fret 
Because I do not comprehend 
The sentences that never end — 

The sentences about your Things — 

Then bear with me, for Beauty clings 
Around my heart, and what you feel 
Is life, to me is then less real 
Than shadows that a curved moon throws 
Upon the world, or hope that goes 
Dancing across pale dreams to sleep — 
Or thoughts only the Angels keep. 


146 


A WOMAN 


You would give your red lips to press 
On mine forever — would caress 
Me with your white, unused arms 
And fill me with the sweet alarms 
Love sends through Man; 

And you would nail your heart to mine, 
And with your laughter would entwine 
My soul and body, till the two 
Were one — and always one — for you. 
This is your plan. 


147 


MY WILL 


Oh Death! Great and unrealized goal 
Of all who live! Only a dream 
Your vast, unclosing portals seem, — 

A vague half truth — 

To me whose soul 
Is drunk with Youth. . . . 

Strange Death! What are you now to me 
Who quaffs the glittered ecstasy 
Of being? who treads a path of light 
Leading away into the night 
I do not fear? . . . but that is near. . . . 

Violet shadows on a wall, 

And drifting clouds, an owl’s far call — 

A flower wet with starry dew — 

These are more real, oh Death, than you! 

And still you come. Your pauseless tread 
Dimly I hear. I shall be dead. . . . 

And who loved, and who loves me yet 
Will weep a moment, then forget — 

And all my smiles, and all my tears, 

Will fade into the drifted years. 

148 


But this I ask. Who e’er you be 
That watches my last agony, 

And shuts my eyes in that long sleep 
The unnamed, ageless millions keep, 

Pull not a sheet across my face, 

Nor draw the blinds and dim the place 
And speak in whispers. This I hate, 
With feigned affection, coming late, 
And windy sighs, and solemn airs, 

And cast down eyes in unfelt prayers. 

Open the windows! Do not chide 
The boys 1 who shout in play outside — 
Nor what is joyous, what is bright; 

For these I loved. I loved the Light. 


THE END 


149 





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